


Still Not Covered in the Training Manuals

by istie



Series: Every One That Asketh [7]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: EOTA-verse, F/M, Gen, Shepard goes a little crazy, harpoon guns come in surprisingly handy, long-suffering Garrus Vakarian, open season on plant monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29692680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istie/pseuds/istie
Summary: Shepard's hearing things in the walls, so naturally, she takes things into her own hands.  Set mid-ME3 somewhere.
Relationships: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Series: Every One That Asketh [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2171175
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Still Not Covered in the Training Manuals

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a gift for a friend of mine who, once upon a time, gave voice to another kickass female commander dealing with a plant monster on a space station.

“What… is _that?”_

“D’you like it?”

“It’s… I don’t even know what it _is._ ”

“It’s a harpoon gun.”

“Still lost.”

Shepard laughed, stepped up to the mantel, and dismounted the harpoon gun from its plaque. “ _Very_ old Earth weapon,” she explained, hefting it up to her shoulder. “Used for whaling.”

“Okay, so my translator is telling me that you’re talking about… hunting huge sea mammals. It’s on the fritz, right?”

“Nope.” She put one foot on the coffee table, aimed the harpoon gun, and mimed firing it. “You know how the krogan hunt down thresher maws?”

“Mm hmm…”

“Same idea, just, y’know, marine.”

“I see.”

“Don’t you guys have anything like that?”

“Big game hunting? Sure. But we turians prefer our megafauna in the sea and our feet on the ground, thank you very much.”

“I guess hunting from a boat wouldn’t really be your thing.”

“Not so much.” Garrus took another look at the gun. “Where’d you get it?”

She shrugged. “Showed up this morning. I probably bought it at some kiosk somewhere and forgot.”

He gave it a proper once-over: hand-firing mechanism, single-bolt loading… “What are you going to do with it? It looks a bit unwieldy for field work.”

“You never know.” She snickered as he raised an eyebrow skeptically. “For now, though, I think I’ll just mount it on the wall.”

“Why?”

“It’s pretty.”

He shook his head in amused disbelief. “Good.”

* * *

Shepard sat bolt upright in bed, waking him from a sound sleep. “What are you—”

“ _Shhh_ ,” she hissed.

“Shepard, it’s two-thirty in the—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” she whispered, and smacked him in the arm.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes and listened for whatever she clearly thought she was hearing: all he heard was the soft hiss of the air recyclers and the low hum of the electronics, but he humoured her and waited. Finally, she huffed, shook her head, and lay back down. “What did you hear?” he murmured.

“Don’t know,” she said, “but that’s the third time this week.”

“You’ve said the Reaper dreams have voices in them…”

“It’s not voices. It’s like… something being _dragged_.”

“And you’re _sure_ it’s not a dream?”

“Positive. It isn’t your snoring, either.”

“I do not snore.”

“You absolutely do.”

* * *

Three days later, he came home to find her atop the bar counter, ear pressed to the wall. “Shepard,” he said, “what are you _doing?”_

“ _It’s in the walls,_ ” she whispered.

“What is?” he asked, vaguely dreading the answer.

“I don’t know,” she replied, “but it’s in the walls, and I am going to find it.”

“It’s probably a Keeper or something,” he said, but he knew the effort was futile.

“Keepers make clicking noises,” she said, shaking her head. “Whatever this thing is, it _slithers_.”

He gave up, and went to put the groceries away.

* * *

A long strand of something green and questionably alive fell into his lap over his datapad: he startled violently, dropped the datapad, and seized _whatever the fuck that was_ between two talons, holding it as far away from him as possible. “ _Spirits_ —” he began, but he was interrupted by two very strong five-fingered hands pinning his shoulders to the back of the chair and his partner’s face inches from his, wearing the ‘somebody’s going to die in the next five minutes and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me’ look. 

“It’s a plant,” she said.

“It’s a— _what’s_ a plant?” he sputtered, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

“Our visitor.” She let go of one of his shoulders and took the tendril-thing from him, held it up beside her face. “This doesn’t match any of the plants in the apartment. I checked.”

“Maybe it came in with the groceries? It kind of looks like something hydroponic…”

“Nope. Checked that too. It’s a plant, Garrus. There is a plant in our walls. Moving around.”

“… Uh huh.” He was considering calling Chakwas.

“I am going to find it, and I am going to kill it.”

He was _strongly_ considering calling Chakwas.

* * *

He found her reading a datapad quietly in the armchair by the fireplace the next day: seeing as he’d expected her to be experimenting with herbicidal rounds (or, equally possibly, grenades), he was pleasantly surprised. “Given up on your vendetta?” he asked mildly.

She looked up with a nasty grin. “I’m researching herbicides.”

Oh, so he’d just arrived a bit early, that was all. “I know I’m not going to like the answer, Shepard, but: what’s your plan?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I think it might be related to the Thorian.” He was getting a little worried about the gleam in her eye. “And if it’s been living in our walls for God knows how long, you might be compromised. I can’t chance it getting wind of the plan.”

It took every ounce of self-control he had not to raise both brow plates to the sky. “Right,” he said, drawing the word out a tiny bit too long. “Very sensible of you. I’ll just go make supper then, shall I?”

“That would be fantastic, hon,” she said, and beamed at him happily.

* * *

Some days, he wished that his observational skills weren’t _quite_ so well-trained. That he didn’t instinctively assess his surroundings upon entering any room and compare it to what _should_ be there. That he didn’t immediately run threat assessments based on those results.

This was one of those days.

He’d just gotten home and had started to call out a hello to Shepard when he saw the empty display plaque overtop of the fireplace… and then the vent cover lying on the floor under the stairs across the room.

“Oh, Spirits.”

* * *

“Special Operations Log, day fourteen. Seventeen hundred twelve hours. After two weeks of careful tracking, I’ve determined the creature is most likely to pass through this section of venting in the next hour. No sign of quarry yet, but she’s here. Somewhere.” 

Silence for several seconds, a long inhalation, the sound of hardsuited feet stepping delicately on steel. “I can _feel_ you, you botanical menace. I know you’ve been avoiding me, clever girl.”

The footsteps stop, then hair rustles against her headset comm. “I’ve found traces of the creature. Looks like sap, but smells…” A sniff, a choking cough. “Smells _foul_. God.” Clearing of throat. “The trail leads ring-ward. It’s fresh, too – previous expeditions have indicated that the creature’s secretions dry quickly. The specimen I found on day eight had desiccated, didn’t have any of this sludge on it. Didn’t smell that bad either, just vaguely… seaweedy. Maybe Garrus was right and it’s related to the hydroponics.” 

Footsteps continue; pause. “Hypothesis: a sample of hydroponic medium has gained sentience. Action item: ask Mordin if that’s possible. Secondary action item: tell EDI not to let Mordin requisition any hydroponic medium.”

A full minute of footfalls on metal and the occasional creak of a millennia-old space station, then she hisses: “ _I heard you_.” 

Silence.

“Here, kitty kitty kitty…”

Nothing… nothing… the faintest whisper of a slither, off in the distance. More metal groaning, the sort that starts long and ends in a couple of sharp cracks.

“That sounds like it’s coming this way… confirmed, motion sensor reads movement at three hundred metres and closing.” Sharp inhalation. “Oh shit, two hundred fifty metres, it’s coming this way _fast_.” Hasty footsteps, followed by crackling as something shoves up against the mic. “I’ve ducked into an alcove. Not exactly the best defensible position, and it’s still coming.”

The slithering gets louder.

“What do you _want,_ you big… stupid… compost heap?” The clacking and rustling of something being unholstered; the solid metallic _thunk_ of a gun being loaded. “Proximity sensor indicates a hundred fifty meters and closing. I’m going to count to three, then harpoon this son of a bitch. One… two…”

Air whooshes by the microphone. “What the—” Shock. “It’s not here.” Frustration. “But I hear it. Where—” Realization. “It’s a level above me.” 

The gun is re-holstered. Inhale, grunt, clang of gauntlets on ceiling hatch. “C’mon, open, come _on_ — _ha_ , got you.” Squeak of unused metal, a cut-off yell, crash of hatch cover on floor below. “Oh, goddammit _._ ” The slithering gets louder again. “God _dammit_.”

Another grunt of exertion, followed by the clattering of a hardsuit and a harpoon gun onto metal plating, and heavy breathing. The slithering (the loudest it’s been yet) slows and stops as her breathing calms.

The harpoon gun clicks.

* * *

He was debating whether to call C-Sec or the _Normandy_ for backup when his proximity alarms went off in his ear and there was a godawful commotion from the vicinity of the stairs: he swung into a crouch against the pillar by the piano, shouldered his rifle, and peered out through its scope:

Somebody tumbled out of the open vent; they were wearing a green hardsuit, though it shone almost like it was wet. The figure (small: asari or human) clambered to its hands and knees, reached back and pulled on something still halfway in the vent (long, pointed, also green) then dragged a hand across their helmet— no, it wasn’t a helmet: their head was _covered_ in green slime. The figure flung a gob of the stuff to the side, called out “Garrus?” – and suddenly the figure was Shepard, crawling out from under the stairs, spreading Spirits only knew what across the carpet.

“Shepard?” he called back suspiciously, watching her through the scope. She came to her feet and wiped more slime off her face; her hair was slicked back to her head with goo, but she was smiling wider than he’d seen in weeks. 

She bent over, picked up what she’d pulled out of the vent – the harpoon gun, he could see now – and shook long algae-like _bits_ from it. “I think I’ll keep this,” she said appreciatively. “It might come in handy again.” 

She headed for the bathroom, leaving a trail of green footprints in her wake, and as he heard her self-satisfied post-battle humming through the rush of water, all he could think was:

_Again?_


End file.
